Running
by Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain
Summary: Three am thoughts on a cold, lonely night.


**Disclaimer:** I own neither Without A Trace, or its characters. The story is my own work. I make no money from this.

**Running**

He wakes and stares at the ceiling. It's been a long time since he's had the nightmare, months at least. And now, again it returned, a variation on a theme. He knows what it means – you don't need to be an expert in psychology or dream imagery to figure out something like this – but tonight is a bad night for it. If he were at home, there would be no problem. At home he simply cleans, or does paperwork; but he's not at home, he's in a hotel, and Danny is snoring beside him in the next bed. Danny doesn't need to be bothered with something so trivial as Martin's recurring dreams, he doesn't need to wake to the smell of bleach or the sound of a scrub-brush on hard surfaces, though God knows this place could use it.

At home, there are other things too. There are all-night restaurants and cafés, where you can hide out, or find someone to talk to, to take the edge away. But this is not New York City with its twenty-four hour life, this is some small place upstate where they don't even have a local bar, let alone somewhere to buy coffee at three in the morning.

He knows it's three-am. It's always three-am when the dream comes to shake his faith in life and hope. It's three-am, but he can't sleep; sleep will not come after dreaming. He needs to get up, he needs to _do._

He moves silently, an inbred talent since he was a child. His sister hated it, still hates it, the way he can come up behind her and she never knows until he speaks or she turns around. It's not sneaking; he just doesn't make noise. He opens his suitcase and gets dressed by feel – sweatshirt and sweatpants, not Bureau approved dress, but he's not doing Bureau work, so it doesn't matter. He carries his shoes out into the hallway – the less he does inside, the less likely he is to disturb Danny. The shoes match the clothes – New Balance, designed for running and nothing else. These are not the shoes of a rap-star or an NBA player, these are not 'athletic footwear,' these are _running_ shoes.

He stretches, warming up his cold muscles. It's important, especially when it's cold and snowing, like it is right now. He has the time, he might as well take advantage of it. After all, this is about being _con_structive, not _de_structive. Then he heads out, falling into a familiar stride designed to cover distance. He _can_ sprint – you need to be a sprinter in this job sometimes, because most people don't go for marathon distances when they're trying to get away from you. But he prefers distance. The point of running is to _run_, not to get somewhere quick. He heads out, ignoring the slight wind that tries to discourage him and tell him that this isn't the thing to be doing right now. The wind is wrong: this is the only thing to be doing right now.

There's no one out here with him, another jarring reminder that while this might be New York, it's not New York, New York. There, no one would notice a running man at three in the morning any more than they'd notice a running man at any other time of the day. Nobody notices anything in New York City anymore. But here, there's no one _to_ notice, no fellow insomniacs, no odd-hour shift workers, no people for whom the sidewalk serves as bed, table and toilet. Here, there isn't even always sidewalk.

He turns onto the highway, heading north. Why north, he isn't sure, but north feels right, right now. And it's not like there's a lot of directions to choose from, unless he plans to run cross-country. Fortunately, the snow's not that bad right now – he can still see and his feet aren't likely to freeze. There's nothing like trying to run on frozen feet – the last time he tried, he could barely walk. But he'd been mad, and anger kept him going when even pain said he ought to quit. He half-smiles at the memory: he's not as smart as people think he is.

Or maybe he is… maybe he thinks people think he's smart, but they don't, really. Maybe they see the truth: a spoiled brat who ended up too well educated for the life he chose. It's not about smarts, because Danny is smarter than he is – way smarter when you really consider it. After all, Martin was the one who got handed all the advantages. Martin got the good schools and extra tutors, while all Danny had was himself. Failure was simply not an option in the Fitzgerald household; Danny had no one to push him to succeed. Yet he did, and he has. Danny kicked his own ass into gear. There's been no one looking out for him. He's had to scrape and pull, and prove himself every step of the way.

Guys like Danny, and Jack… people like Sammy and Viv… they're the real heroes of the world. The people who started out with the odds stacked against them, but scrambled over every obstacle in their way, not guys like Martin with the prep-school training and the 'halls of power' heritage. None of them are out here at three in the morning, running to beat the demons they shouldn't have.

Maybe this is it, though. Maybe this is the time where he just keeps going, running not to, but away as always, but this time maybe he won't stop. Just keep running until he reaches the end of the earth, then a little farther to fall off the other side. But really, how far _could_ he go, on this combination of anger and fear? Fear more than anger, not panic but a deep down drive, a need to just go, to just escape and get away. From what, he's not sure, but he knows he needs to run.

And that's the thing about distance. Running distance is all about control. In a sprint, it's all out, fast as you can, but in a marathon, you have to pace yourself – steady, long, even strides, almost meditative, really. Focus on the breathing, and transcend the body. If a runner thinks about running, they get nowhere, but if they simply let go and let be, they can go on nearly forever. He doesn't feel the cold, and by the end of the first mile, he doesn't even register the fact that it's snowing.

But what is it this time? This is the last point in his life he's been expecting to have the dream. Things are good right now – he has a job he loves and good friends who like him for who he is, and not because of a family name. Maybe that's it, though. Maybe he's just waiting for something to come along and screw it up, because things seem too good, and if there's one thing he learned in white-collar it's that 'too good' usually spells 'con.'

And Sammy. What has he gotten himself into there? It's probably not the smartest thing in the world, getting involved with your boss' ex-girlfriend, who just _happens_ to be another one of your co-workers. And they've already had 'the talk,' long before they ever started seeing each other. He wants that American Dream: 2.5 kids, the dog and the cat – provided he can find someone willing to share that kind of space with a sometimes moody neat-freak intellectual – and Sammy wants something else. And unfortunately, he's never been the person who can live in the moment. There's always tomorrow to worry about. Tomorrow can be just as important as today; you ignore it at your own peril.

It also could be related to the fact that he's lost one of his major anchors in life. Bonnie kept him focussed, kept him reminded of the fact that he can make his own decisions. Sometimes he wishes that was his _first_ family, rather than just the people he was left with when his parents decided they needed to go away. Sometimes he wonders if that wasn't where he really belonged. He could always talk to Bonnie, about anything. He never had to worry that she'd dismiss his concerns because they didn't fit in with her plans for his life. She was the one who taught him how to laugh – it's kind of sad when you think about it: that a child needed to be taught how to laugh, and how to crack jokes. Bonnie never belittled his fears and never told him to fall in line. But now she's gone, and there's no more snickerdoodles, or famous mashed potatoes under which to hide the tofurkey.

He wonders if everybody would be surprised that he's not the in-control superman they seem to think he is, if they'd be surprised to find out that he has three-am thoughts the same as everybody else does. Three-am thoughts where he doubts his purpose and existence and wonders if he shouldn't just not wake up in the morning. Where he wonders if anyone would notice if he simply walked away and never looked back, or if they'd just get on with their lives and be better for it, if people actually like him, or merely tolerate his presence because it's easier and politer than telling him to go away.

He pushes himself a little harder, looking to drive past the pain. You can't do distance if you can't get through the pain. It's not for quitters. It's not something that comes naturally; it's something you have to make yourself do. Creatures instinctively avoid pain, and man is a creature. But you can transcend it. Pain is pain, whether physical or mental. The mind is the body and the body is the mind. Maintain the rhythm – breathing, thought and motion.

He hears a car behind him, and moves slightly to the left, even though there's plenty of room for a person to pass, even in this weather. The driver doesn't pass though, instead he slows right down and seems to track Martin's progress, lighting the way.

Martin tenses slightly and makes note of it, but doesn't turn and distract himself from his running. You never turn around and look back; you always focus on what's ahead of you. The ground behind has been covered; there's only one direction to go in. It could just be someone cautious, not willing to risk running over someone in the snow and facing a lawsuit. That's more incentive than any criminal risk. More people care about being sued than being arrested. And the insurance rates… insurance is a bitch at the best of times, there's no telling what'll happen if they have to cover a pedestrian/auto accident.

"Martin!" This is no random driver; he knows that voice, better than he knows his own. He doesn't respond though. He's at that point where if you don't stay focussed, you don't make it. "Martin!" The car pulls alongside him now, and Jack leans out the window. "What are you doing?"

He doesn't answer, just maintains his pace. _Isn't it obvious?_ He's running, and it shouldn't matter that it's too-early morning, or that it's snowing. Now if Jack wants to know _why_… well, that's more complicated, and probably can't be resolved in a few minutes by the side of the road. 'Why' is far more tangled than 'what.' 'Why' is reasons, motivations and emotion, all feeding off each other and growing and tangling together. And it's a good thing his question wasn't 'who' as in 'who the hell do you think you are?' because Martin wouldn't have an answer for him right now. _I don't know_. Is he 'Marty,' the somewhat reserved older cousin with the occasionally odd sense of humour, is he 'The Machine,' the cold, precise calculator who can reduce anything to numbers, and talk to computers like old, familiar friends, or is he the 'Martian,' the alien thinker whose logic matches no other being's on this planet? One thing he knows that he's not is 'martyr.' Martyrs die for a cause, for a reason. If Martin dies anytime soon, it will be over something stupid. _Fools rush in_…

Three-am thoughts. If he keeps thinking them, he's not going to be able to keep running, because he won't be able to breathe. You need to breathe to be able to run, breathing is the most important component of running, just like it's the most important component of life. But that's what he's out here for: to think the three-am thoughts and get them out of his head. Because he can't have them when the sun comes up and people rely on him to be stable and sane.

"Martin. Get in the car." Jack stops and waits, but Martin keeps going. He gets ahead, far enough, then cuts across the road to begin the run back. It's a little sooner than he would have liked, but part of him wonders why Jack is out here, following him. Maybe Jack thought Martin would get lost in the snow, and the last thing he needs right now is a missing agent. And maybe he would end up getting lost, just run on until he couldn't run anymore. Sometimes that feels like a solution. There are days, sometimes, that he doesn't know how much longer he can hang by his fingernails. But everybody has days like that, especially in this line of work. Everyone has their tricks, though if the year continues like this, he might be able to tackle the New York Marathon. He's considered it more than once, just to see if he can.

He can't get into the car, though. Not now, not when he's sweating in spite of the weather. Not if he wants to move tomorrow.

Jack turns around and follows him some more, then drives on ahead. Maybe he's guessed that Martin's going back, or maybe he just figures there's no sense in trying to save the kind of crazy person who goes running in temperatures below freezing. He'll probably be mad, but then again, what was _he_ doing up at three in the morning? Or maybe four now; Martin hasn't bothered to check.

By the time he gets back, Jack is waiting. He gets a wordless escort straight to Jack's room – Danny must still be sleeping, and Jack isn't the type to disturb people needlessly. Danny's not the problem, crazy Marty Fitz is. His first supervisor tagged him with that – not to Martin's face, the man had some sense of survival – and Martin's hated it and been dogged by it ever since. _Marty Fitz_. More label than identity – Victor's kid, not a person at all. The only people who get to call him 'Marty' now are family… and he only tolerates it from them because it's gone on forever. And Danny, because Danny's, well… incorrigible. It's the only name his cousins know him by, but to everyone else it's _Martin_. The full name, with pronunciation the only variable he accepts.

The shower's running hot, and Jack looks pointedly at Martin's sweat-soaked face. He doesn't need to say anything, Martin knows the value of cleanliness. Jack wants to talk, but he probably doesn't want to suffer, either. And a hot shower would be good – help ward off the stiffness and pain from overworked, under-rested muscles. He ignores the growth of mildew on the tile; he's lived in far worse places than this at times in his life – eaten from them too. This is why he's so fastidious about how he lives and eats now. You don't do that sort of thing unless you need to.

He lets the hot spray pound and soothe, ignoring the sound of the bathroom door as it opens and closes. When he steps out, there's a change of clothes waiting – Jack knows his habits and knows he'd hate to re-dress in something worn and dirtied. A long talk then, and probably something serious, more than a run in the dark.

"What were you doing out there?" Jack barely waits for Martin to step through the door, but then Jack's not a normally patient person.

"Running." It's a stupid answer, but Jack's in full-on parent mode, something that always gets Martin on edge. _Where did you go? Out. What did you do? Nothing._

"Why?"

Martin shrugs. He might as well tell the truth, a lie would accomplish nothing more. "I had a dream. A recurring nightmare."

"A dream. What are you going to do if you have serious trouble? Start a triathlon?" That's what Jack should say, but he doesn't. Instead, he sits down on the foot of the bed and laces his fingers together. "What kind of a dream?"

There's something else here, but Martin's not sure what. Jack sounds concerned, not irritated. "I'm driving in a car. The scenario's always different, but I'm always in a car going too fast and I have to stop, but the brakes won't work." No, you don't need to be a psychologist or a symbologist… you don't even need to be a psychic. _I'm out of control, and I can't stop_. The subconscious isn't even being subtle about it. That's why he needs to do something afterwards: he needs to seize that control back.

"When did it start?" Jack closes his eyes, shifting from parent to profiler. He might not _need_ to be a psychologist right now, but he _is_ one, something it's sometimes easy to forget.

"When I was fourteen." When he discovered that there was a path ready-planned for his life. When he found his schedule booked with debate classes and public-speaking seminars. He hates them both, especially the public speaking. He can do it – with enough desensitization, anyone can do anything – but he despises it. He was supposed to be a lawmaker, not enforcer. Everyone seems to think that Victor is proud of his son, but the truth is that his father was furious when he announced his decision to go to the Academy. Martin half-expected to see his application blocked or destroyed – he spent the entire first week waiting to be kicked out. _And he wonders why I can't respect him_. But how _can_ you respect a person you hardly know, and who never tried to know you?

"When you started running away from home."

Martin nods, surprised. Jack's obviously done his homework, because it's not something Martin's ever mentioned.

"Why did you?" Jack looks tired, and not from the hour. He looks defeated, like he did at Christmas when Maria ground him down. "Run away."

"I don't know. I was a pissed off kid who wanted to get even with his father in the most expedient way possible. I wanted to prove to him that it was my life, and that he couldn't run it for me. I resented him and wanted to throw everything he'd ever given me back in his face."

"That's pretty specific for 'I don't know.'" Jack's as good with sarcasm as Martin is. "What brought you back?"

"Federal agents, mostly." They even had a name for it. _The Brat Patrol_. Except for the blessed summers where he could escape to Bonnie and Roger's, Martin's face decorated the 'be on the lookout' list of every agency from Albuquerque to Zolfo Springs. Because he was always running _from_, never _to_. His destination was wherever the bus stopped, or the driver dropped him off. He'd had more than a few close calls, and some scars that even now would never heal. Some were even physical, like the rat-bites that decorated one of his legs. Others… no one would ever see some of the others. Even if he were Catholic, he'd make no confession. But it's how the world can anger him, sicken him, but rarely shock him. He's seen some of the worst, and heard accounts of the things he hasn't.

"Why'd you stop?" Jack won't be put off by the flippant reply. He wants, no, he _needs_ an answer.

"Who says I stopped?" Martin nods towards his shoes. "I still run, Jack." It's still about control, about escape. But now he's not escaping the old man, he's escaping the young one.

Jack looks like he's about to say something back, then looks closer instead. "I guess you do." He closes his eyes, like there's a scene he can't bear to look at. "Hannah ran away."

"I'm sorry." There's nothing more to say. Clearly Jack wants answers, wants to hear that there's a solution, a way to keep his child safe. He wants to find out what he did wrong and not do it again. But there are no magic words that will fix this; there is no cure for these problems.

"Her mother found her, but…"

"If she's mad she'll do it again." Martin finishes the sentence that Jack can't. He wishes that there was more he could say, but he knows nothing of the circumstances. He knows only of his own familial tensions. But Jack's willing to grasp at anything, and what he sees is someone not unlike his own child: running away from an FBI father. But Martin's parents are still together, and as near as he can tell, Hannah was never told what she was supposed to be.

Jack has a right to be scared, though. He knows, rather than simply being unable to imagine, the dangers of those streets. He's sat in the same room with some of the predators, and listened to their stories. He's seen things that would make people wonder if Huxley wasn't right, if this planet _isn't_ a Hell… or at the very least, someone's work of horror fiction. No wonder Jack was awake with three-am thoughts. He must be tearing himself to pieces, desperate for the knowledge that will end this real-life nightmare and let him get back to sleep.

"I don't know, Jack." He wishes he did. He wishes he could offer something, some sort of comfort to this man who has been more father to him than his own father has. A funny thing to say about a boss he's only known for three years, but like he told Sammy, Fitzgerald men aren't known for their closeness. But Jack's provided something that Victor never did: respect. Sometimes it's grudging, and sometimes it's overridden by frustration with this idiot who doesn't seem to think before he acts, but it _exists_. He congratulates his people on a job well done, and Martin is one of those people now. Martin realises that, more than ever, at this moment. Yes, Martin has information that comes from a different perspective, but it's still a sign of respect that Jack has come to _him_ for it. There are other people he could call, even at three in the morning, other people who could tell him what to do or what to say, things that Martin can't provide. Viv would have more sympathy, being a parent herself, and Danny has the obvious street-smart background. Sammy has experience running away, too… but it's Martin that Jack has chosen to ask. Maybe because Martin was available – awake and active at the time Jack needed to talk, or maybe it's because Jack feels that the circumstances are closer, but he _asked_. The simple act of requesting advice shows more care and attention than ever received from Victor.

"Maybe if…"

"It's her problem, too, Jack." That much Martin does know. If Hannah truly wants to do this, she will. Nothing Jack or Maria can legally do or say will stop her. He doesn't know yet if Jack is desperate enough for illegal measures, but even they only have a limited chance of working. "You parents only _think_ you can control your children."

Jack laughs, a short, sad laugh. "I guess we do, don't we. But it's impossible."

Martin nods. "If you've raised them right. You want a kid that you can trust to survive on their own if anything happens to you, so you teach them to think and be independent." Martin shrugs. "And face it. Running is a nearly perfect way to get your attention."

"Which she thinks she doesn't get enough of." Jack sounds bitter, like he's heard this line before.

"You're an FBI agent, Jack. Worse, you find missing persons. We're not nine-to-five, we're…" Martin waves his hand around, indicating the tiny hotel room. "All I know is that when he was hunting me down, I knew my dad was looking for me. He was emotionally involved, and expending some effort." He wasn't a political asset, the bright, honour-roll student with the picture-perfect manners and the young 'charm the constituents' smile. He was an individual with complications and personality. He wasn't there to make Victor look good. He was making Victor _look_. "And the way you do things… probably a part of her figures you'll spend more time on her if she's one of your cases. She thinks she has to compete with strange children, so she competes." Martin drops his gaze at the floor, not wanting to look at Jack's pained face. "She's wrong, of course. Kids usually are. She probably hasn't figured out _why_ you get so obsessed… you said Maria caught her?"

Jack nods. "At a 'friend's.'" Quotes clearly land around the last word. "Some boy she met at school. Apparently he had an older cousin who was willing to drive them out to California."

"Land of opportunity," Martin says, dryly. Opportunity to get hepatitis, syphilis, or even AIDS. Opportunity to land in the prostitution industry – age doesn't matter, the younger the better – or to get high on things far stronger and deadlier than pot. Opportunity to die. Sure, those opportunities exist everywhere these days, but everywhere doesn't sell them with the same glamour California does. The truth is, life is no better on the streets of L.A. than on the streets of Topeka, Kansas. Martin knows – he's been to both. "How far are you willing to go?"

"I'd chain her to her bed until she was thirty, but Maria won't let me." Jack's only half-joking about that. He'd never abuse his child, but he knows she isn't safe.

"You might get lucky, Jack. She could evolve into a decent person." He pauses. "Then again, she might go into politics. Or worse, become an FBI agent."

"God forbid," Jack says. Then he sighs, a deep, tired sigh. They should sleep, because out there is a child _still_ missing, a child they're expected to find. "Thanks, Martin."

"I wish I could help." Unfortunately, there's nothing he can really think of to do. Anything Jack sets up will be tainted in Hannah's mind, just another attempt at interference that she's set her mind against listening to.

"So do I." Jack says nothing more, as Martin picks up his shoes and running gear, and exits the room. Maybe it's his turn to join the Brat Patrol and pay his penance. He prays there won't be a need.


End file.
